The Problem With Crazy (15 page)

Either way, it had to stop. I loved him. He was my father.

“Come on.” I stopped and motioned for him to join me. He didn’t say anything, only nodded and loped to my side.

We walked on in silence, this awkward gait where I’d speed up, and then stop to wait, aware that I was probably making him feel bad. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want him to feel like I hated him.

But a little part of me did.

I was going to hell.

We walked into the new coffee store I’d heard about a few months ago, a place called Sideways. It was very cool, lots of retro lounges and chairs, with gorgeous black and white framed hand-drawn artwork hanging on the walls. The tiles on the floor were large checkers, making the whole place feel like a 50s diner.

I pulled out a chair for Dad at one of the little round red tables. He sat down and I resisted the urge to push his seat in for him.

I chanced a look around. There were only five other groups in there, three couples and two groups of four. They all looked to be in their forties, and not one of them had so much as glanced at Dad.

Feeling more confident, I walked up to the counter to place our order, my eyes trailing over to the art on the way. They were all these little scenes: a pair of shoes, a ball, a wave—but all captured in such exquisite detail, like the artist had noticed every particle of every moment and somehow jotted it down.

“One mocha and one chocolate milkshake, please,” I said, too captivated by the artwork to pay much attention to the man behind the counter. That is, until I looked up to hand over my cash and found myself face to face with the strange guy from the counselling centre. He pushed his floppy hair back out of his eyes and smiled at me, dimples aglow.

“Are you following me?”

“No.” My jaw dropped. “How would I even know where you worked? I saw you in a centre over an hour’s drive from here.”

“Relax.” He gave that easy smile again. “I was kidding.”

“Oh.” I felt about two-foot tall. “So was I.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.
But he didn’t call me on it, thank goodness. He looked different here; same brown hair, same muscled physique, same liquid chocolate eyes that just seemed to go on and on forever, but something about him seemed more real, though. There was a heaviness to him I hadn’t noticed at the centre when he’d been all whimsical and fancy-free.

“Been running much recently?” He tilted his head to the side and his hair fell across with it. I had an almost irresistible urge to reach over the counter and flip it back, tuck it behind his ear away from his eyes.

Almost.

“Not really,” I said. “Been smoking much recently?”

“I said try everything
once
.” He winked at me, reaching behind the counter and pulling out two glasses. “And it didn’t capture my attention enough to make me want to try it again.”

“Hmm,” I said, my mind a million miles away. He’d been at the centre; what had he been there for? From what I understood, they counselled all kinds of youth there, from those whose relatives had Huntington’s to parents with cancer.

I angled my body so he wouldn’t see my dad. I didn’t want to expose myself when he might not have any similar scars to show. “Actually, I think I might make those to go.”

“Are you sure? Who are you here with? I could go on break and join you.” I blinked. The offer was unexpected, to say the least.

“I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble …” I dismissed his comment with a wave of my hand.

“My brother and I own this place. He’s kinda the boss, though.” He smiled again and walked over to the coffee machine where he started grinding some beans. I took a few steps with him, again trying to position myself so Dad was hidden from his view. Maybe, if I stayed here and talked to him, then took the drinks myself he wouldn’t even come near Dad.

A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed what I’d already suspected. From here, Dad looked totally normal, sitting down, shoulders rounded, flipping a pack of sugar around between his fingers. His arm was jerking a bit, but with the sugar twirling he was doing, it almost looked on purpose.

Perfect.

“So, when did you start this place?”

“Three months ago.”

“Aren’t you kind of young to be owning your own business?” I wrinkled my nose.

“Aren’t you kind of cute, thinking I’m so young and helpless?” A flirtatious smile spread across his face and I felt my eyes widen.
That dimple …
“I’m twenty-two.”

“I’m eighteen,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Old enough
, was what I was thinking. “Twenty-two is still kind of young, though. Shouldn’t you be travelling around the world or something?”

“We started this place ‘cause we had to. Our dad passed away.” His voice was soft. He bit his lip and focused on the coffee machine. “Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” My hand flew to my chest. “Your mum?”

“Heart attack, ten years ago.”

“Oh—God, I am so sorry, I … I …”

Ground, this is the deal. If you open up and swallow me, I’ll promise to turn into lovely, earth-friendly compost.

“Don’t be.” The boy shrugged. The noise of the coffee machine as it spluttered into life made it hard to speak. He looked down at the jug, making the milk dance into little foamy ringlets.

While he studied that, I studied him. He was wearing glasses, thick-rimmed black ones, and I wondered why he hadn’t been wearing them the other day. Perhaps he only needed them close-up. His dark T-shirt looked a little too short for his somewhat tall frame, making his body look even longer than it was. There was something about him I was drawn to, attracted to, even though I didn’t know why. He wasn’t the stereotypical rock-god hot like Lee, or even indie hot like Dave. He was just so—normal.

And with my current situation, maybe normal was my type.

I looked back at Dad and was struck by the reality of it all again. At least I knew now why this guy was at the counselling centre. He’d been through some horrible times, but he had his whole life ahead of him. If he were like me, with the potential to die, he wouldn’t start his own business.

Would he?

And, if Dad died, would I be able to move on, just pick up the pieces like he clearly had? What would Dad’s death be like?

A pang of guilt washed over me, and I hated myself for being so horrible. I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t.

“Is that your dad over there?” the boy asked, interrupting my thoughts. I looked where he was pointing, frightened of what I would see. Dad was sitting down, staring vacantly out the window. My stomach sunk.

“Yes.” No point denying it.

“It’s cool he’s hanging out with you,” he said, as he handed over my coffee in a takeaway cup. He walked over to the other side of the little kitchen area behind the counter and prepared the milkshake while I stood there, pondering his words, replaying them over and over in my mind.

It was cool he was hanging out with me.
Cool because he didn’t have a father to hang with him? Cool because old men spending time with children was nice, in general? Or cool because he’d sensed Dad was sick?

What exactly did he mean by, “cool”?

“Whatever,” I said, and twisted the cup in my hands. It had one of those corrugated cardboard rings around it. I spun it from side to side. “I like this cup.”

“You do?” He smiled at me again, and for a second I forgot about Dave and Dad and disease. The three Ds.

“Yeah, it feels nice.” I studied the walls of the place again. “This place is really … different. Looks like a cool place to work.”

“You’re looking for a job?” The question took me by surprise, and I let it settle over me. No, I hadn’t been looking for a job. I’d been looking forward to a summer of touring the country and making out with my boyfriend, then pursuing a career in event management.

However, now it appeared that my schedule was a whole lot clearer.

“Yeah, I am actually.”

“We might have a vacancy.” The boy paused. “I have a few commitments, and we both go to the counselling centre a bit more than we’d thought we would. Would you be interested in working here?”

I froze and studied him. His pink lips were slightly parted, his eyes focused. He appeared to be serious.

“But you don’t even know me,” I protested.

“And you don’t know me.” He shrugged, pouring milk into the milkshake jug.

“But I could be a terrible waitress,” I said. “I’m clumsy, and I’ve never done anything like it before.”

“Can you pass me back your coffee?”

“Um … sure.” I handed him back the cup that I’d been playing with. He took it from me, gave the ring a little twist and smiled, handing it back over in a matter of seconds.

“See? You just handed me a drink. Now you’re experienced.” He turned and scooped some ice cream into the glass.

“It’s not the same. What if I steal from you?”

“Will you?”

“Well, no, but I could, and—”

I was interrupted by the roar of the milkshake maker. The boy looked at me and mouthed
I can’t hear you
over the din, all the while a wicked grin adorning his face.

“Great. I’ll talk to my brother, but I’m sure we’ll get you in for a trial,” he said. “We’d love to have someone like you working here.”

I quickly turned my back to the counter, taking a big sip of coffee. My tongue burnt from the heat. I had no idea why I was so embarrassed by that last statement. He’d love to work with me. Big deal. It was probably because he’d
love
to have a few afternoons off per week.

But what would I love to do with him …

I gave myself a mental slap. What was I talking about? I’d loved Dave; this guy had good dimples, and that was about it. He was no replacement.

He walked around the counter, milkshake in hand, all the way to the table, and I completely forgot any reference to a job. He was taking the milkshake to Dad! I wanted to stop him, but I couldn’t. It was like watching one of my horror movies. I was kind of curious to see the blood.

“Milkshake’s for you, I’m guessing?” He placed the tall cup down in front of Dad, a straw poking out the hole in the top.

“Thanks,” Dad said in his slightly slurred way. I studied the boy’s face to see if he flinched, or gave a weird look as Dad spoke. Nothing. Not even a hint of interest.

“Thanks for stopping in, guys.” He gave Dad a slight tap on the shoulder. “Your daughter’s gonna be working here, you know.”

“That’sh good.” Dad grinned. His eyes were unfocused, darting around the room. “Kate’s a—she’s a hard worker.”

“Not a thief?”

“No.” Dad shook his head emphatically and I groaned. What was with this guy?

“Here’s my number.” The guy pulled a card out of his back pocket, one of the “Buy eight coffees get one free” variety. Down at the bottom was a mobile number with the words
Text your order ahead for speedy service
.

He was back behind the counter before I even had a chance to ask his name. I sank down in my chair, and took a sip of my takeaway coffee. Clearly, I was drinking in.

I was just so shocked at his easy state of unknowledgeable acceptance.

“He likes you.” Dad said, with a surprisingly quiet voice. I blinked, then followed Dad’s eyes to where they were focussed, on the man behind the counter.

“The coffee guy?”

Dad nodded sagely, reclined in his chair and took a giant slurp from his straw. I tried to ignore the urge I had to look at him again, to see if a quick study could reveal some potential interest in me.

Not like it mattered, anyway. No guy would be interested in me if they knew the truth. Dave had made that abundantly clear.

I’d never stand a chance with this guy, someone who I’d have to tell about Huntington’s.

Realisation: Dave had flat-out left me when he’d found out about the disease; both Dad having it, and me being a potential victim. No other guy would want to be with someone like that, someone who couldn’t risk having children in case they passed the disease on.

Was this one of the seven stages of grief? Had I reached acceptance?

And if so, acceptance freaking sucked.